


There is no us anymore.

by silverleviathan



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, M/M, MCR breakup, Post-Split, Stomachaches (album)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:59:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverleviathan/pseuds/silverleviathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No, Frank. I can't do it. /This/.” He clicks the case shut and stands, gesturing around the room. “This isn't even my guitar. It's a fucking /Squire/, Frank. And you, with the Epiphone – this isn't /us/. Where did the Les Pauls go, the shitty metal effects, the duct-taped tuning pegs?” He shakes his head. “I can't do this any more.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is no us anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> A really short, crappy MCR break-up fic while I work on my Big Project. As always, I own nothing but the idea... songs referenced are:  
> Action Cat - Gerard Way  
> all i want is nothing - frnkiero andthe cellabration  
> stitches - frnkiero andthe cellabration  
> where do we belong? anywhere but here - frnkiero andthe cellabration
> 
> Twitter: @_theexplicitone
> 
> Oh, and kudos to you if you get the sneaky Black Parade reference in there :)

Frank didn't know what to do with himself after the breakup. He felt awkward, off-kilter, like he was watching everything happen to someone else. It didn't feel _real_.

He remembers the day it happened. Not the official split, but the day it was over. The day there was no going back. They were in the studio recording a song for the new album; it was late, they were tired, and with a tour looming ahead of them they were all on edge from the pressure of a deadline.

“Fuck it!” Ray shrugs off his guitar, pulls out it's case from under his chair. “I can't do this.”

They all blink at each other, startled. “It's okay, man,” Frank consoles him. “It's just a fucking riff, calm down. We can do it tomorrow.”

“No, Frank. I can't do it. _This_.” He clicks the case shut and stands, gesturing around the room. “This isn't even my guitar. It's a fucking _Squire_ , Frank. And you, with the Epiphone – this isn't _us_. Where did the Les Pauls go, the shitty metal effects, the duct-taped tuning pegs?” He shakes his head. “I can't do this any more.”

He slams out of the studio a moment later, and silence descends. Gerard shifts uncomfortably.

“I should probably... go talk to him. Uhm. Yeah.” In the next second Gerard too has abandoned the alien atmosphere of the too-empty room.

Frank turns his bewildered gaze from the door to Mikey, who simply shrugs and leans his bass against the wall. His expression is bored as he waves a hand at Frank and pulls out his phone, already texting as he leaves.

Frank doesn't move. He stares around at the abandoned instruments strewn about, the empty drum kit, his own signature Phant-o-matic. In the space of a minute Frank has been left behind.

_"What the hell?!”_

*

The next morning he's nursing his coffee in front of Oprah when there's a knock on the door. A moment later it swings open, despite Frank's lack of response, and Gerard's flaming hair makes an appearance, (thankfully) along with the rest of his stupid face.

“Frank? You down here?”

“In here!”

Gerard makes his way through the clutter in his hallway to find Frank still in his pyjamas, slumped across the sofa. “Hey man. What the hell happened last night?”

He sits tentatively next to Frank's knees, awkward around Frank in a way he hasn't been in a decade. “Ray and I had a... chat.”

“Yeah? What kind of chat?”

“...You might want to turn off the TV for this, Frankie.”

His tone of voice makes Frank sit up straight, flicking off the set. “What is it?”

“Listen. Ray and I have felt this way for a while, and Mikey agrees with us. Something's not _right_.”

“Well, _no_ , it's _not_.” Frank says, a seed of anger settling in his chest. “Bob's not here. If you hadn't sent him away, hadn't forced him to go--”

“Bob left of his own accord. It was his _own decision--”_

“Bullshit! You think I didn't hear the fights, all those nights on that fucking bus?”

“We're over, Frank! Not just Bob and us. There  _is_ no us any more!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“My Chem's _over_ , Frank! _Done!_ It has been for a long time!”

“No it's not, what the hell?! You're just letting Ray's doubts get to you!”

_"Look at us. Just look. What have we become?”_

Gerard stands abruptly, forcing Frank to look up at him. His eyes are wet. “Goodbye, Frank.”

He leaves, and just like that, Frank has been left behind.

*

They do the tour anyway. It should be their final, greatest goodbye but to Frank it feels like a lie. They haven't announced it, haven't told the fans – they're just playing pretend.

The second show on the tour Frank approaches Gerard on stage but Gerard flinches away. In the dressing room after he tries again, coming up behind him and nuzzling into that magic spot behind his ear when Gerard freezes. That's when he understands everything Gerard said. _We're over. There is no us any more_.

He turns and runs. He finds an empty corridor and sinks down the wall, thumping to the floor and cradling his head in his arms.

He doesn't return until long after the tears have stopped and his face is not longer red and blotchy.

*

That night he lays in his bunk and stares at the curtain, imagining Gerard doing the same in his own bed just a metre away. His heart aches. His eyes ache. Everything hurts.

_Someone I love threw me away. Someone I love ripped through me but I don't mind. I'll be fine. We'll get by somehow._

The line etches itself into his head, fixating on it until every word feels raw and used. Frank writes it into his poetry book, scratches over each letter until it stands out an angry black. Then he tears it out, buries it at the bottom of his suitcase and tries to forget.

*

[One year later]

One day, Frank gets an email entitled “For you.” and containing nothing but a link for a youtube video of a song called Action Cat.

Frank goes down to the basement and writes. _A_ _ll we are is a memory. I use to have a best friend, now just one more enemy_.

A few days later, a package arrives in the mail. It's a soft felt heart the size of his palm, clumsily stitched and smelling a familiar scent that brings tears to Frank's eyes.

Frank goes down to the basement and writes. _My thoughts go black it breaks my heart. I ignore your taps on windows still. I've become attached to where I fell_.

The following Wednesday Frank opens his door to a familiar face.

*

“I've missed you,” Gerard blurts out, once they're sitting awkwardly side-by-side on Frank's sofa.

“I know,” Frank replies hollowly. “I heard your song.”

Gerard ducks his head.

“It was...” he clears his throat awkwardly. “It was good.”  
Gerard doesn't respond. The silence stretches into forever.

“Is this it?” Gerard asks. “Is this it for us?”

 _We're over. There is no us any more_. “I don't know.”

Gerard leans forward then, cups Frank's chin in a feather-light touch, turns his head to brush their lips together. They hang suspended in the moment, until they come crashing down.

“You taste different.”

Gerard blinks, uncomprehending.

“You look different. _You're_ different.”

“Too different?”

“...I don't know.”

Gerard crumples. “I love you, Frankie.”

It's on the tip of his tongue, to throw their own fucking song in his face. But he can't bring himself to. He just ducks his head and doesn't say anything.

Frank doesn't move as he lets himself out. He waits until he hears the door click shut.

He goes down to the basement and sifts through his drawers until he uncovers a tiny, rumpled piece of paper. _S_ _omeone I love threw me away. Someone I love ripped through me but I don't mind. I'll be fine. We'll get by somehow._

*

[Six months later]

Gerard receives a parcel in the mail. It contains simply a CD with a spider web on the cover, and a folded square of paper tucked into the case.

_You're not too different. Just right. Perfect. I'm sorry._

_I love you._


End file.
